laughter is the best medicine
by sweetwatersong
Summary: Five times Sam Wilson has a good laugh, and one time Maria Hill has the last one.


**laughter is the best medicine**  
rating: pg  
characters: Maria Hill, Sam Wilson  
warnings: spoilers for _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_

summary: Five times Sam Wilson has a good laugh, and one time Maria Hill has the last one.

_laughter is the best medicine_

"Don't say it like you hate me, Hill," he laughs, light and easy, crossing his arms as if they're not about to infiltrate the most secure building in all of the East Coast. (The Stark Tower in no way counts. Look at Phil; he got in and out without a problem. And Maria's heard a few rumors about workmen, too.)

"I haven't had time to hate you. Give me a few hours and then we'll see," she replies acerbically, and Wilson smiles at her.

...

The knock is familiar, _shave and a haircut_, so Maria only aims her Sig at the hardwood flooring when she opens her door.

Sam is half-kneeling on the front step, an unconscious Captain America draped across his legs, and he looks up at her as sweat runs over the dried blood on his temple.

"They're after him," is all he needs to say, and she snaps the gun up to scan the suburban street as he pulls Steve over her door sill. Once they're inside she flips the few lights to their dimmest mode, maintaining the illusion that Maria Hill is still dreaming peacefully in her bed. (Sam doesn't comment on her combat-ready clothing, wrinkled from sleep, or the shotgun she lays beside her while they begin to doctor the unconscious captain. Everyone is ready for war, now, at all times of the day.)

"Tell me you didn't carry him like that the whole way," she says, sorting out gauze and alcohol wipes as Sam tears the shredded T-shirt to get at a bad graze.

"Do I look stupid? No, it doesn't matter what the movies say, fireman's carry is the only way to go."

She nods at that, handing him a pair of gloves. Once they have done what they can (field medics, all of them, they're always in the field now), she meets his exhausted gaze.

"How are you?"

"I'm fine." He waves off her concern, taking the glass of water off the blood-stained coffee table and draining half of it. When he notices she hasn't relented, he shakes his head. "Just a few scrapes, that's all. Do you think I could have carried Big and Heavy over here if I was seriously hurt?"

"I've heard of more idiotic things," Maria says succinctly, and he chuckles low and wearily, rocking onto his heels.

"Yeah, I bet you have."

(Morning comes and they're still alive, still in one piece. She slips them into her bland Passat from the back door and sets about cleaning up the mess as they drive away, tossing bloody towels and bandage wrappers into the trashcan with steady fingers.)

...

"Have you ever been to Paris?"

"Funnily enough, I did have a life outside of work once."

"Right, before work turned out to be evil. I'm just saying, maybe you should cultivate some hobbies outside of planning ways to kill Stark."

"I'm up to 529 on my list, Wilson. I have to round out an even hundred or I'll never be able to sleep."

His laugh is bright and amused and effortless, inviting her to join in, and Maria only raises an eyebrow as Sam's shoulders shake, his head tossed back to smile at the clear blue sky.

...

They toast, glasses raised and eyes somber, to the anniversary of the Triskelion's destruction. To the dead and fallen, to the friends and colleagues now resting under the brilliant green grass, to those with tombstones and headshots on wanted lists, to the people they knew now on HYDRA's side.

They toast, an hour later, to the survival of their allies, to the living heart of SHIELD that beats, beats, beats through those still living, those who have not given up the cause, to defending mankind and humanity, and wearing their insignias on their hearts.

She dances, champagne flute half-empty, a spring sun smiling down, and to the memory of those no longer with her, she salutes their ghosts and sips her drink.

(Sam has no place here, among the reunited grieving and rejoicing, but neither do the other heroes who filter through the crowd, who give hope and receive it in equal turns. Maria holds out her hand in invitation when a Lindy Hop song comes on, Traverson grabbing Kai and Ying with Rogers in hand to all step out onto the open floor beside her, and Wilson takes it, bemused.

He guffaws as they sort out their footing, swinging back and forth to the upbeat song, until breathless and red-faced they collapse into empty chairs at the song's end, relief and exultation all in one.

"Not too shabby, for a pilot," she manages as she gulps down air, and he shakes a finger at her.

"Not a pilot," he shoots back, equally winded, while she grins.)

...

"So, world, ending, the last of all days kind of thing."

"Not my first apocalypse," Maria replies, dismissing the fear-mongering the latest villain has tried to spread. For once Twitter has proven useful in stopping the rabid hate, rather than encouraging it; she's been pleasantly surprised.

"Never know, could be your last."

"That sounds like you're not up to the challenge." She raises an eyebrow and Sam snorts, crossing his arms.

"I've helped find the Winter Soldier. In Russia. In the winter. I've saved Steve Rogers from near-death on more than one occasion, not counting keeping Captain America's star-spangled ass out of danger, _and_ I've managed to last this long without you hating me. I don't think there are many challenges I'm not up for."

She wants to smile, despite herself, but levels a no-nonsense look at him that holds in spite of his grin.

"There's still time, Wilson," she tells him, and he laughs as if the Earth isn't going to break apart in six days. And maybe it won't, because there are Avengers ready to defend it, because there are shattered pieces of SHIELD still carrying out their missions, because there is still a sun in the sky and laughter in the air

...

(The world doesn't end, and she smiles when the all-clear comes over the comms. And then she goes to tend her garden, because the plants will still have time to grow, the weeds to spread, the sun to shine.

She sends Wilson a crate of zucchini, months later, with a note that says simply _this is all your fault_. He understands when every Avenger in the Tower gets one as well, and when subsequent shipments arrive every week for the next month.

He calls her when the latest alien bug turns all the zucchini sentient and gives them legs, tiny little legs Hill, what the hell, even the _zucchini bread_ is fighting back, and all he hears on the other line is a muffled chuckle.

Sam floods her inbox with photos of Thor combating itty bitty zucchini monsters, just for that.

And the world, such as it is, goes on.)

_fin_


End file.
